Every Night
by EmmaLThornwood
Summary: It's been a while since he's heard it, and no prior instance has seen Adam nearly twenty hours away from the Barns, but, fuck. If Ronan needs him—needs him, like this—he can make an exception to his own rule. "Okay," he says, quiet. "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll get you taken care of."


Adam Parrish promised himself he wouldn't give into this. He promised himself he'd never become _that _guy; that no matter how badly he missed Ronan, he would keep his libido in check until they were physically together, or he'd pull his sheets over his head and deal with it all on his own like everyone else his age. He promised himself that he would never stoop to _phone sex. _

His philosophy—still generally withstanding—is that it removes the intimacy from the act in its entirety. That it takes something sensual and physical and fluid and turns it into another electronic connection in a time when all he has of Ronan is too few text messages and photographs.

But.

But.

He's attributing at least half of it to receiving the call at two o'clock in the morning. It's rare that he's finished with his homework before then, but tonight he's actually managed to catch up and get to sleep around midnight.

When he wakes to his phone alerting him that Ronan is calling, his first instinct is to assume something is wrong.

The greeting he gets, before he's even had a chance to speak, is, "I know how you feel about this, Adam, but please."

He doesn't need to ask what Ronan means. The intent is perfectly clear to Adam in the way that any intent of Ronan's always is. He's exhausted. He's frustrated. He's desperate.

Adam's still half asleep, but he doesn't need much consciousness to recognize this tone in Ronan's voice. It's been a while since he's heard it, and no prior instance has seen Adam nearly twenty hours away from the Barns, but, fuck. If Ronan needs him—_needs _him, like this—he can make an exception to his own rule.

"Okay," he says, quiet. "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll get you taken care of."

Ronan makes a sound, something between a whimper and a pleading sob.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"No," Ronan answers. He sounds a little angry about it, a little defeated, already breathing too heavy. "Not anymore. I tried to—I wasn't gonna call you, I know it's the middle of the fucking night, I'm sorry, I just—"

"It's _okay, _Ro," Adam repeats, infinitely grateful not to have a roommate. "Do you wanna try again? Or do you just want me to talk you through it?"

"I want." Adam hears rustling, like Ronan is shifting. Swallowing. "Could you get off right now? If you tried?"

Adam closes his eyes, assessing. He's tired, but not so much so that he can't redistribute his focus some. "Yeah, I could. Is that what you need? For me to come?"

"I don't—fuck. I don't know. I think so."

Adam feels his chest tighten. He doesn't know what to do with the inability to touch Ronan right now. They've never had to work at this before. He's never been unable to simply tell Ronan to drive to St. Agnes, or, even more simply, to roll over in Ronan's (_their_) bed at the Barns and hush him with nothing more than an expertly placed brush of his lips.

"Do you want to tell me what to do?"

"Finger yourself," Ronan says, instant.

After knowing him for this many years, Ronan is still able to perfectly blindside Adam. He was expecting a, _nothing yet_, or maybe a, _jack off_. Not this. Not Ronan already straining over the words, _finger yourself_.

Inside a residence hall at Harvard, an Ivy League school, Adam Parrish, an Ivy League student, works his boxers down his legs, pulls his left knee against his chest, wets a fingertip on his tongue and presses it inside himself. "All right," he whispers, a little choked. "Is one enough for now?"

Ronan swears into the receiver incoherently. Then, "For now, yeah. Tell me what you're wearing."

"I'm, um." Adam takes a breath. Lets it out. This is possibly the most cliché phone sex hook out there, which should make this whole thing feel even more annoyingly detached to him, but anything and everything uttered with the overlay of Ronan's voice is impossibly hot. He can't fucking help it. "I'm not wearing anything, you know, below the waist. I have a blanket over me. And a hoodie—one of yours—'cause it's cold in here."

Ronan laughs, but it's a sound derived from pain. Adam isn't sure if it's emotional or physical. "Of course you're wearing my clothes right now, of all fucking times. Of course you are."

"Wear your clothes a lot," Adam says, because it's true, forcing himself to relax enough to work his finger in a little deeper. His dick is a fan of this. Twitches against his thigh. "Helps me sleep."

"You do shit like this in my clothes a lot?"

"Sometimes," Adam admits. "Don't do this in particular very much at all, but I jack off in 'em kind of a lot, I guess."

Adam becomes less eloquent as soon as his sex drive has kicked in at any capacity, and he's fully aware, but he can't do anything to stop it. It should turn Ronan off, probably, but Ronan's told him before that he likes it. Likes the distinction between when Adam can think clearly and when he can't.

"Does it feel good?" Ronan asks, and there's an edge to his voice that tells Adam his composure is slipping, just a little. "Right now, I mean, do you—do you feel good?"

"Doesn't feel like when you do it," Adam tells him, "but if I don't think about it too much, yeah, it's—_oh_—it's good."

Ronan moans into the receiver. _Moans. _

Adam is…he's not sure he's ever heard it before. He's heard growls and bitten off curses and his own name, whispered like a prayer, but this. This is new. This is Ronan needing without satiating. This is Ronan without him. It's the sexiest, most heartbreaking sound Adam has ever heard.

"I miss you," he says, before he can stop himself. And then, again, "God, I miss you."

"I miss you, too," Ronan tells him. Sometimes he wouldn't, but right now Adam knows he needs to say it just enough. Which is good, because Adam needs to hear it.

"Three weeks," Adam reminds him. He hears himself sounding a little breathier than he means to, but he's powerless to stop it. His downstairs brain is running about half the show at this point.

"Three weeks too fucking long," Ronan says, and Adam can't argue with that. Then, quieter, "Tell me what's gonna happen. When I get there."

Adam lets go of the phone, trapping it between his shoulder and his hearing ear to free up his left hand, which he slips under the hoodie, running his fingertips gently, teasingly, over his nipple. He's talked Ronan into an orgasm plenty of times before, but there's something a little intimidating about doing it without the advantage of watching him. Sizing up which things are getting him there and which ones are _really _getting him there. He needs to feel something bordering on too much to allow this of himself without his brain convincing him it won't be enough. "As soon as you get here," he says, finally, "I want you to come in and push me up against the door. Don't even give me a second to say hi or breathe or do anything, just. I want you in, and then I want you kissing me."

Adam hears what he thinks is Ronan licking his lips. "Sounds like a deal, Parrish. Go on."

"Just that for a while first," Adam says. His left hand is making its way down his torso now, and then back up again, right pushing his middle finger a little further inside. "I need time to get used to, just—that. Just your mouth. And then I want you to take me to the bed."

Ronan waits.

"But maybe I'll already be naked," Adam revises. "Maybe I won't have any clothes on when you get here. So you'll take me to the bed, and we'll lay down, and I'll just. Rub you. Through your jeans. Feel you getting hard."

"Tease," Ronan says. It sounds like there's something stuck in his throat.

Adam laughs, a ghost of a noise. "Don't worry. I'll get your clothes off after a minute. Just wanna wait until I can tell you can't take it first."

Ronan hums, approving.

"So we'll both be naked now, and you'll just kind of—" Adam presses a second finger to his hole, dry. His breath hitches. "You'll just roll, like, half on top of me, so we'll be right against each other, and you'll start to move."

Adam hears Ronan shifting again, and his mind displays a gallery of images to him. If Ronan has already attempted, fruitlessly, to get himself off, it's likely he isn't going to try it again. Instead, Adam pictures him on his side with a pillow between his thighs, or maybe on his stomach, pressing down against the bed just enough to feel something.

Adam's hand allows itself to wander lower, and then stops, wrapping loosely around him. He goes on. "You'll start to move, and I'll just feel you everywhere. Feel your hand on my hip, holding me still. Your mouth on my neck. Feel you breathing. Kissing my shoulder." Adam's thumb is hovering over the head of his cock. He doesn't touch it. "All across my chest. And then you'll start down my stomach. And you'll—you'll lift my legs, so you can get between 'em, and just. Take me in your mouth."

Adam knows—_knows_; he's heard Ronan sucking on things often enough that he couldn't possibly mistake it—that Ronan has just slipped a couple of fingers into his mouth, and that's damn near more than he can take. But this isn't about him. It isn't _for _him. It's for Ronan.

"It's always so hot in there," he breathes, "and so tight, the way you hollow your cheeks, and just. Fuck. Makes me feel like I'm gonna lose it before you even get goin'. And I'll tell you that. That I'm not gonna last. But you'll pull off, and you'll tell me that's bullshit. That I'll last as long as you want me to."

"You will," Ronan says, verging on unhinged. "Long as I tell you. If I wanna keep you in my mouth for an hour, you'll let me. Won't you."

It's not a question. Ronan's silence up until this point has been so consistent that the contrast now is stark and obviously a tell. He's getting close to getting close.

Adam feels a rush of pride, knowing he's the one doing this. Knowing Ronan couldn't do it himself, because he needed Adam to.

"You could edge me," he breathes, letting go of himself just long enough to calm down a little. He's worked the second finger in to its first knuckle, though, so maybe calm isn't exactly the right adjective. "If you wanted. Just to make it last."

The clipped, low grunt emitted through the speaker now is much more _Ronan_ than the moan from before, and Adam likes that they're in familiar territory again. Likes that he knows what he's working with.

"Yeah," Ronan says. "Yeah, I think I'll do that. You're full of good ideas."

Adam's body recognizes this as a praise before he does, and he feels his cheeks heat up with the warmth of the blush spreading over them.

"Okay," he agrees. "You'll start edging me, then. You'll keep—keep sucking until I start pushing at your head. Trying to tell you I'm." He halts, abruptly, and allows himself a steadying moment of preparation. He isn't sure if sense memory will allow him to hear himself saying the words _I'm going to come_, straight to Ronan, without their intent rising to fruition, but he takes a chance and says it anyway. He has to still his fingers briefly, but to his credit, he holds off. "But then," he says, "you'll stop. Pull off. Start kissing all over my thighs and my stomach until I can handle more, and then you'll start all over again. Long as you want. An hour, maybe, like you said. Maybe two. Maybe all night."

"Jesus," Ronan says, "Adam." They sound the same.

"You won't get me off like that, though," Adam tells him. He can feel the soles of his feet beginning to tingle, and he runs one finger up the underside of his cock, toeing a line he's already been dancing along the edge of too long. "You'll ask me to fuck you."

"You will, won't you?" All of a sudden, Ronan sounds like he's just run up a flight of stairs. "Let's get the formalities out of the way, Parrish. You'll fuck me, right?"

Adam backs off his cock again, fingers curling into a fist, nails digging just barely into his palm. _Not yet. _"'Course I will," he assures Ronan. "But I'm not gonna get you ready for it. You're gonna do that part yourself. I'll just walk you through it." Adam half expects Ronan, even in his current state, to spit back a sarcastic remark about how he thinks they've done this enough that he knows how to open himself up for Adam without instruction, thanks, so Adam presses on before he can intervene. "I'm gonna tell you about this. About tonight. About how slow I took it, and how this is exactly what I want you to feel. I'll tell you how I started with nothing but spit. Nowhere near enough. How it took me a solid five minutes to get a single finger in all the way."

Ronan says nothing. There's just heavy, erratic breathing.

"Then," Adam says, "once you've gotten that far, I'll tell you I put in the second one dry. I'll tell you it hurt, but it felt more like having you inside me that way, so I needed it. Needed to pretend, just for a second, that it could be you."

"God," Ronan manages. "_God._"

Adam is indescribably glad that Ronan sounds so entirely _gone_, because he can't feel anything below his knees anymore with how quickly the static, tingling sensation is building. And this is just from his fingers inside himself—not working at any sort of angle at all. If he touches his prostate or his dick, it's over.

"I'll make you work at it longer than you want to," Adam presses on, fighting it and fighting it and fighting it. "You'll be telling me you're ready. Begging me to just let you stop so I can get inside you. And I'll let you beg for a while, because you look _so _pretty opening yourself up for me, but then. Then. I won't be able to resist. I'll use enough lube that we don't even have to try, I'll just. I'll be all the way in, all at once, and even though we've really just started, you'll say—"

"—_Adam—"_

"—And I'll tell you, 'It's okay, baby'." Adam can't keep the endearment from slipping past his lips. His hands are moving of their own volition now, the fingers inside himself stretching to meet his prostate, the fingers of his left hand finally beginning to jack him in earnest. "It's okay," he says again, but this time, not in the tense of the imagined future—here, _now_, directly to _present _Ronan. "Me, too. Come on. Let it happen."

"Oh. _Oh. _Holy _shit, Adam, I'm fucking—"_

He doesn't quite make it to _coming_, but that's fine. Adam understands. He's fucking coming, too, hard enough that words are currently so far from the realm of tangibility that he doesn't even try.

Only after, when he's coming back down, does he feel his own lips fumbling over, "Ronan, Ronan, _Ronan_."

There is a long silence. It isn't an uncomfortable one. It is both boys adjusting to a state of awareness that involves something besides carnal instincts again.

Ronan breaks it first, by saying, "Thank you."

"Don't," Adam tells him, because he already knows what territory this is headed into. "You're allowed to ask me for things when you need them. I _want _to help you. Whatever that means at any given time."

Adam anticipates an, _I thought _I _was the gay one, _or a, _Wow, Parrish, nobody told me we were filming a Hallmark movie. _Instead, so softly that Adam barely hears him, Ronan asks, "Would it be okay if this was something we did, just, like. Every once in a while? I'm not asking for a set schedule or anything. I get why you don't like the idea of it, and if you don't want to, it's fine. It's no big deal. I just—"

"Ronan, honey. Yes. Whenever you need to. Yes."

Another, much shorter silence. Then, "Adam, I've been counting. That's three fucking pet names over the course of one phone call. The limit I'm normally on board with ignoring is approximately zero, so I've been generous. Don't make me feel like a housewife."

Adam breaks out into a grin, a genuine, fully vocal laugh bubbling up from his chest. "I don't know, I'm kinda into the idea of you cooking me dinner in nothing but an apron."

"That's misogynistic." Adam can hear the smile in his voice.

"You've been around Blue too much."

"Guilty. What can I say, the maggot's decent company once you get past the fact that she's genuinely interested in fucking Dick."

Adam laughs again. "You should try to get some sleep."

"Oh, yeah," Ronan scoffs. "Because I'm on _such_ a busy schedule. You sleep, college boy. Sorry for keeping you up."

"Somehow, I think I'll find a way to forgive you."

"I love you," Ronan says, which is rare enough that it catches Adam off guard.

"I love you," he echoes, after a beat of surprised hesitation. "Dream about me."

"I do," Ronan assures him, breathing already mellowing out into something even and content, lulling Adam down with it. "Every night."


End file.
